I am not into public sex
but when both you and the person you’re seeing
live with parents
it’s less a thrill and more a necessity
you get to know every bathroom in town
that has a sheltered entrance and a door that locks
a romantic evening in
is driving 30 miles at 2am to an abandoned boat ramp
so you can do it without having to look over your shoulder between strokes.
you invent positions that are less Kama Sutra
and more bowl of spaghetti
and you pray none of your friends or family will need a ride
because the whole car stinks of passion
even when you’re alone
you start taking the backstreets
so you can be on the lookout for abandoned parking lots
it’s a lot like when I lived in that car
that summer when I got comfortable with loneliness
I spent months bathing in whichever bathroom
had the biggest and most private stall
I’d cover the windows with bedsheets to keep the streetlights out
and the fear in, but if I wanted a good night’s sleep I would drive out of the city
until I could make out Orion again
my neck and back always hurt from sleeping in a Twister position
wouldn’t give rides because the whole car smelled like unwashed stress
and those secluded asphalt deserts were the best
spots to get trashed and pass out in the driver’s seat
Rumi compared love to being drunk
but for me it is more like sobering up
owning a car is a lot like being in love
in that there is so much you can do
inside of it
Troy Kody Cunio lives in Orlando. You can find all his poems and things at troykodycunio.com
Give me something
Pink, blind and hairless
Something pure and bloody
Buried so deep
You barely feel it moving
Shifting as a shiver
That makes your face tingle and ripen.
Something that screams as you release it.
Keep your floss and paper
Cracked and worn offerings
Transparent, thin as skin
Give me the vulgar, vile appetite and venom
Woven tight to your insides
Making you twist and whimper
I’ll force my hand inside
Through the acid of your dark, red dreams,
And yank the beast out by its wriggling tail.
Let it cut and scratch me;
I’ll eat its screams.
This pure, untainted passion
is sweeter and fiercer
Than any other opiate.
@IlanaMiraL is an aspiring novelist and former American who currently lives in London. A piece of her flash fiction was published in the inaugural issue of Formercactus and one of her short stories was long listed for the CWA Margery Allingham Short Story Competition.
A private college run by a Prophet
you never trusted, but your daddy thought
would save you, man and school. “Won’t let you quit.
You will make friends.” So you rush Kappa, not
authorized on campus like Coke and sex.
No Greeks, they say, but eight surround you at
this mixer, one a blonde Adonis next
to photos, Apostles once in his frat.
He speaks the names and doesn’t blink. Sister
whispers, “He’s going on your card.” A pink
rectangle with the names of strangers, list
of “five you’ll please until they sign,” she winks.
Dad drove you days away, ignored your pleas;
you knew this place would bring you to your knees.
Kristin Garth is a poet from Pensacola. Her sonnets and other poetry have appeared in Infernal Ink, Anti-Heroin Chic, Mystic Blue Review, Quail Bell, Occulum, Fourth & Sycamore, Digging Through the Fat and many more publications. Follow her on Twitter: @lolaandjolie .
My Body & Band Camp
On the true & its concealment
Several nights later I’m convinced I’m bad
At sex & that the torso is invalid
Or at least the terms are
The terms bad and good belong
In a misplaced morality play
Performed in the desert
By your family & closest friends
With tickets that aren’t free but
With all proceeds going
Still Six Thirty
moment you be-
come rain, a line
of songbirds en-
acting a fictional
unity that is just
as real as any-
thing you’ve ever
said or read or
heard about, the
cliffs that loom
only a few feet a-
head of the time
you can feel in
the base of your
torso while your
lover is present—
By Nathanielle Dawn
Serve it to you
like I just took two graham crackers,
a swath of chocolate,
a marshmallow and melted that all together
using the heat from the coiled electric stove top
or the line
When it starts to soften,
dripping I tongue-out catch that
sweetness in soft nips around the
before splitting that sugar heaven
with the tip of my tongue,
scraping the insides clean.
Christian Stock doesn’t know why his mind works like this.